Chapter Seven
Ryan knew he should have told Eric during their phone call that he’d asked Wyatt and Wyatt had turned down everything that didn’t involve a kitchen, but Ryan was still aching over the whole conversation. Especially over the noticeable conflict and pain in Wyatt’s voice when he’d turned Ryan down.
He hadn’t wanted to say no, that much was obvious. But Ryan understood that sometimes coming out was difficult, and sometimes it was impossible.
That acknowledgement didn’t stop him from lying in bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling, wishing that Wyatt’s situation was different.
Maybe it was a little selfish, because that might mean Ryan’s situation would be different, but he reminded himself that there was no harm in wishing for things that would benefit everyone.
Just like there was no harm in a little flirting, as long as he didn’t fall in too deep and hurt them both all over again.
It was also better, Ryan decided, for him to stay in his room and indulge in his melancholy mood than try to use Wyatt to improve it.
Wyatt also wanted to know when Ryan was going to start bringing around a cute boy to play his boyfriend, and probably play with other things, and he couldn’t blame him for that. It was probably going to hurt like hell.
What Ryan couldn’t acknowledge to him, was that it wasn’t just going to hurt Wyatt. Ryan didn’t want to play house with someone else. Not when who he really wanted was on the sidelines, watching.
And that was why he hadn’t told Eric. Eric would have had a backup there that afternoon, probably all trendy haircut and tight pants and gym abs.
It was funny, Ryan thought as he shifted in his bed, realizing he was going to have to change his sheets because they still smelled like Wyatt and what they’d done the other night, because those things would have easily been enough to attract him only a few weeks ago.
He hadn’t been picky about his hookups, but those had usually been things he wanted.
And if he was lucky, he might even find them all in the same guy.
But then he’d met Wyatt and suddenly he wanted something else: muscular forearms from knife work and constantly lifting heavy pans; blond hair half-messy from the wind; the intriguing hints of vulnerability that Wyatt revealed because he wasn’t trying to be sexy or mysterious all the damn time.
Tabitha had been so right about what she’d whispered into his ear yesterday afternoon; he’d gotten in too deep and now he was fucked.
He could call up Eric today and tell him the whole thing was off. There had been no guarantees it would even change the GM’s mind about Ryan. But Eric had unbelievable instincts when it came to contract negotiation and there was a very good chance he was right.
Telling Eric it was off was as good as acknowledging that he was willing to leave this city, his friends and his family behind.
And while it was shitty that his fake boyfriend couldn’t be Wyatt, this was his life.
Even for someone who generally lived by the seat of his pants, there had to be weight to this decision.
“Fuck,” Ryan told the ceiling. “Fuck all of this.”
The ceiling didn’t reply, which was probably better in the end.
He thought about calling Tabby and whining to her but he’d already unloaded on her twice yesterday, and he couldn’t in good conscience do it again the next day. But he still couldn’t bring himself to call Eric and tell him the truth.
Glancing out the partly open window showed a beautiful blue sky beckoned and Ryan decided that if he wanted to keep pouting, then he might as well spend time with someone who wouldn’t get annoyed with him.
Or something.
He was in board shorts and a tank top, grabbing his phone and the keys to the Range Rover before he could change his mind. It was easy enough to pull his surfboard off the wall and maneuver it to the rack on top of the Range Rover.
Opening the garage door with the fob inside the Rover, Ryan realized belatedly he’d forgotten a towel and his wetsuit. Detouring back into the house, he grabbed the missing items and then stepped back into the garage with just enough time to see Wyatt coming around the corner, fresh from a run.
He was only wearing shorts, leaving his chest bare, and even though Ryan had already spent an entire evening exploring it, awareness and memory simmered in his gut, reminding him of what he couldn’t have.
What he shouldn’t have.
“Hey,” Wyatt said, pulling a t-shirt from the back of his shorts and wiping his face. Ryan knew what he looked like after runs, and he never looked that god damned excellent. “Heading out?”
Ryan didn’t think. That was typically his problem, and he usually knew enough about his flaws to combat them, or at least temper them with good judgement.
The problem was he’d been daydreaming about Wyatt all morning, annoyed and caught in the memory of a few nights ago.
And here Wyatt was, all glorious invitation.
“Yeah, I’m heading to the beach.” Ryan didn’t even hesitate. Just went for it. “You said you like to surf, you should come with me.”
Wyatt looked regretful. “No board.”
Ryan decided his brain-to-mouth filter must have died during his angsting this morning. Or maybe during the last time Wyatt had taken him apart with his mouth and those calloused fingers “I’ve got a spare.”
Wyatt’s expression moved from regret to confusion. Ryan wasn’t sure he could blame him. “Are you sure?”
He was not sure at all. In fact, Ryan had no idea what the hell he thought he was doing. But he nodded anyway. “Yeah, come with me.”
By the time they had gathered a second set of equipment, and were headed down the freeway towards Huntington Beach, Ryan had mentally justified that his offer fell under his agreement to be “friends.” Friends totally went surfing together, right?
“I always went to Venice,” Wyatt said when he saw the direction Ryan had taken the Range Rover. “It’ll be fun to try somewhere new.”
“How long has it been?”
“At least a few years,” Wyatt admitted. “I’m sure I’ll be total shit now. Last time I was in the water, I was three inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. Before culinary school,” he added as an explanation.
“I didn’t realize culinary school was the same as boot camp,” Ryan teased.
Yeah, they were supposed to be friends, but just Wyatt’s voice was a hot lick of awareness right up his spine. When he felt that way, it was impossible not to flirt a little, and hope that Wyatt would flirt back.
“You wouldn’t,” Wyatt said, leaning back in his seat, the wind from the open window fluffing his blond hair.
“Professional cooking can be tough, and you need to be prepared,” he continued.
“There’s often twelve- to fourteen-hour days.
Long hours bending and lifting, all in a brutally hot kitchen.
Not everyone can hack it. Culinary school isn’t just about teaching techniques and flavors; it’s about weeding out the ones without the stamina or the drive. ”
“So, culinary school is the educational equivalent of the Hunger Games.”
Wyatt laughed. “You could say that.”
Ryan glanced over and while he could imagine Wyatt a little shorter, it was hard to imagine him without his solid build or all that firm muscle.
“If it’s so tough, why did you stick it out?” Ryan asked.
“It was what I wanted to do,” Wyatt admitted. “I didn’t care how hard it was. I sort of enjoyed how hard it was. I felt like I went in one person and came out another.”
Ryan had a pretty good idea of what fifty pounds of muscle might look like on a frame the size of Wyatt’s. “You did.”
Wyatt shifted in his seat. Closer to Ryan, who didn’t miss the movement. His hands clenched tighter on the steering wheel. “I don’t think important things should be easy. I’m sure you worked your ass off.”
“Yes, and no.” Wyatt made surviving culinary school and his subsequent years in important kitchens sound like something noble.
Ryan didn’t want to talk about five-tool players, or how scouts evaluated them.
He’d never been ashamed at how easily baseball had come to him.
It was tough to imagine taking advantage of a situation when he’d had so much handed to him because of a set of natural skills, but he felt oddly shamed admitting it to Wyatt.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It wasn’t shameful. It was okay to want more, and okay to take it. It wasn’t like he’d wrested it from more-deserving hands. He’d wrested it with his own. “I’ve wanted to travel my entire life,” Ryan admitted. “I never could see myself staying in LA.”
“But you’re actively trying to stay in LA,” Wyatt asked with a perplexed expression on his face.
“I’m trying to stay playing for the Dodgers because my family is here,” Ryan corrected. “I like baseball because the game can be great, and also because it gets me out of here on a regular basis.”
Wyatt looked surprised.
“What, did you expect some paean to baseball the sport? How I love the smell of the grass and the dirt under my fingernails, and the brightness of the sun during a day game and the lights during a night game?”
“Maybe?” Wyatt said meekly.
“I do enjoy that stuff,” Ryan said. “But someone said, you’re a great baseball player, you could make a lot of money doing it, and travel at the same time, mostly on someone else’s dime. So I said yes.”
Ryan cut a quick slanted look towards Wyatt, who merely looked thoughtful and not judgmental. He hadn’t really expected otherwise, but Ryan also didn’t go out of his way to make this particular confession.
“You took a risk when you came out, then.”
“Not really,” Ryan admitted wryly. “I made sure any risk I had was mitigated. Well, technically, Eric made sure any risk I had was mitigated. He’s good for that.”